Big Words, Little Meaning
by Cantthinkofaclevername
Summary: It all starts with a coarctation of the aorta, it all ends with a great personal sacrifice. It all starts with a strong distaste, it all ends in undeniable attachment. What you think isn't always what you know. Told in a saucy point of view. All human.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey Everyone! This is a new story I'm starting, obviously. It's going to be fairly short, I think unless something changes, so I'm planning for it to be about 15 chapters long. Enjoy!**

**Also a thanks to WittyPenNamesROverrated for** **Beta-ing. She's a life-saver**

**Disclaimer: These characters aren't my own, I just like to play with them.**

**Chapter 1**

**BPOV**

I wake up, and the first thing I notice is my lack of pants. Never a good sign. I groan and roll over flinging my hand across the bed. It meets a firm warm figure. _Fuck. Please, for the love of God, let it be someone I know. _I cautiously open one eye…attempting to peek at the mystery guy. Nope, no one I know, and this definitely is _not_ my apartment. He's still sleeping peacefully, despite the early morning rays seeping through the pale curtains. I take a deep breath and launch into Bella's One Night Stand Battle Plan. First Objective: Find pants.

I scan the room, quickly locating them, still entangled with my underwear, part of a trail of clothes starting outside the bedroom. The panties are a bonus; I almost never find them. As smoothly and gently as possible, I get out of bed. After silently sliding them on, I move on to the next step in Bella's On Night Stand Battle Plan. Objective Two: Find his wallet.

His jeans are fairly easy to find, and I immediately look in his back pocket, typical man-place for wallets. He was no exception. I have to resist the urge to do a victory dance when I look in his wallet, five hundred dollars and a low-security credit card. Hell yes! Next I look for his driver's license; curious as to whom I did naughty things to last night. Bingo. Christopher P. Hill, 6'3'', Brown Hair, Green Eyes, 173 pounds. He is pretty freaking gorgeous.

Uh-oh. There it is: the catch. The "Ask me about Jesus" business card sitting behind the license. He was probably a devout catholic boy…until I came along. Suddenly, I don't like the name Christopher anymore; I like Jesus Boy (I have a compulsive need to nickname everyone). I've corrupted Jesus Boy. I'm going to double Hell.

Jesus Boy begins to stir and panic shoots through me. I have a feeling he won't wake up for another hour or so, but I'm still uncomfortable. He won't remember a thing, not after all the stuff we did last night. Jesus Boy had settled back into deep sleep, so I decide to help myself to his refrigerator. Recreational drug use makes me fucking hungry. The contents of his fridge are pretty minimal, but I do find some Jell-o, and some steaks, which I put in my bag. Don't judge.

Objective Three: Get the fuck outta there. I put on my heavy jacket and slip out the door, and into the apartment corridor. I'm not going to lie; it's a really nice place. Bella scored big. But I flip my hood over my head, keeping my head down, and walk out into the Seattle rain.

Objective four: Find my goddamn car. Not a problem. My car was gangster. Except not really. I had to sell my old Chevy pickup a few years back. It was heartbreaking. Really. So I traded it for a silver 2004 Chevy Impala. Not as charming, but hey, I take what I can get. After stumbling around the parking lot looking for my boring car, I finally find the thing, nestled in between two of the biggest cars in the lot. Great day so far. The dashboard clock said 6:43. Okay, so I have seventeen minutes to my shift at The Bean… which just so happens to be across town. _Glorious. _I speed out of the lot and toward the coffee shop

Battle Plan complete.

I make it there with three minutes to spare. A personal record.

"Woah, woah, woah! Look who got here on time… wearing the clothes she wore last night." Angela greets, saying the last part disapprovingly.

"Shuddup, Angela. It was a rough night," I respond, pulling on my apron, the super attractive, tan one that says "GET YOUR BEAN ON!"

"Mmmm, I can tell. Okay, so the boss man is being a total douche, but it's just because his beloved latte machine went out this morning. I swear to God, the way he looks at the thing sometimes… " Angela begins rambling.

This is exactly why Angela is my best friend. She doesn't ask, even when I come in looking like hung over trailer trash. I give her a 'tell you later' look as she speaks. She nods, and we head to the counter. It's a usual shift, me dealing with snobby patrons who write second-class novels for a living. Then blog about it. These are not my people, and "service with a smile" is not my policy. I guess I was more tired than I thought, because by the end of my shift, I'm nauseous and sweaty.

Angela and I are the only ones left, closing up, when I catch Angela giving me an appraising look.

"What?" I ask, not liking the way she's looking at me as I use great amounts of energy to wipe down the front counter.

"Bella, you don't look too hot," she says, concern coating her words as she dumps some coffee grains into the nearby trashcan.

"I told you, I had a rough night," I dismiss, though I do note that I do feel like shit.

"Bella, you should really be careful, you've lost a lot of weight, and given your… history… well, I'd just be more careful if I were you," she continues, ignoring my comment and looking me deep in the eyes.

Oh! She played the "history" card. I fucking hate when she does that. It's Renee's favorite card to play too, but she plays it differently. It's her favorite story, I'm her "miracle child", since I was born with a congenital heart defect. Renee loves to tell how I was born blue, struggling for life, and she was so distraught. But this doctor, her hero, majestically stepped up to do a risky surgery on a half-dead infant. And poor Renee, she just couldn't eat, knowing her baby was in danger. I felt dirty and used whenever she told that story, like I was just some way to get attention. But Angela was right, there were certain side affects to the surgery that could be showing up now…

"You're right, Ang. I'll get it checked out," I give in, willing to do anything to get her to stop watching my every move as if I'll die in a second.

"It's not just that, Bella. All this…activity is dangerous," Angela presses, eyes narrowing a little. Fuck my life.

I sigh. She thinks I had a drug problem. I beg to differ though. It's not a "problem" until I stop enjoying it. I didn't do anything _too _serious. Just ecstasy and the occasional joint. I use the word "occasional" loosely.

"Alright, alright. Can we just finish closing up and go home? Pretty please?" I half beg, pleading with my eyes for her to drop it.

"Yeah, whatever. Just…think about it, please." She sighs.

Subject: dropped.

We wipe tables down, drain machines, all that extremely exciting junk, and leave. Angela sheepishly slides into my car. Oh. Right. Ang's car broke down. I was supposed to give her a ride to work!

"Oh my God. I'm so sorry, Angela. I'm…just…..God, why do you hang out with me?" I groan, throwing my head back into the headrest. Most people would have left me by now. Why she stays will always be beyond me.

"I put up with you because I know the old Bella will come back," she says sincerely, gazing out her window.

Ouch. That hurt a little. Angela doesn't mean to hurt my feelings, she's just telling me the truth. Nevertheless, I feel like I'm on a raft drifting out to sea, sliding away from everything and everyone that I love. They stand at the shore, watching, helpless. They call to me, beckoning me back, but all I hear is muffled pleas. I'm just too far gone, and I'm afraid, that one day, they're going to move on, and give up shouting to the girl wandering hopelessly in the horizon. I'm waiting for the day that I just disappear forever.

There's a short silence before Angela pops it. "What's that smell?" she asks, wrinkling her nose.

I sniff the air and catch what she's talking about, "I don't know…" oh crap, yeah I do. Those damn steaks. I need to put those things in a refrigerator and fast.

"Oh," is all she replies with, sniffing one last time before letting it go.

We drive home in an awkward silence, Angela messes with the radio while I drown in my own depressing thoughts.

"So… Uh, what was up with last night? You looked kind of crummy this morning, no offense," Angela asks, finally breaking the heavy silence, turning the radio down to where the hyped-up eighties song that's playing can barely be heard.

"Bella's One Night Stand Battle Plan held up…yet again. Only this time, with Jesus Boy," I explain, rolling my eyes.

Angela snorts. "Jesus Boy?" she inquires, eye brows raised questioningly.

"It was tragic, I was going through his walle—" I stop, letting "wallet" fade, hoping she doesn't catch it.

Of course she does.

"You did WHAT? After you expose him to your shady lifestyle, _and _have meaningless sex with him, you fucking _STEAL_ from him? Bella, this is a new low, even for you. I've stood back, I really have; I was going to let you figure this out yourself, but I can't watch you sink lower and lower like this. I feel like you're getting farther and farther away, and there's nothing I can do to save you. You need to find someone who can. You are not the girl I met seven years ago. Not at all," she bursts, glaring at me from the passenger seat.

I feel like I got punched in the gut. I had only seen Angela this angry twice; once, senior year, when Jessica decided to try to drunkenly seduce Ben after prom, then the second time when we watched _Inception_. But this time, it was deep. I heard the underlying ultimatum; straighten up or be friendless. This is officially the shittiest day _ever_.

I keep my eyes on the road the rest of the time, and then practically sprint up to our shared apartment, like an angsty teenager. I can't face Angela right now. I'm not angry with her, how I could I be, when she was telling me the absolute honest truth?

I fall into bed like a rock, letting the stillness settle over me. Everything aches; my joints, my head, my fingers and toes. I can't even move. I'm out of breath, just from going up one flight of stairs. I'm falling apart, I realize, and I have no one to glue me back together. I'm exhausted, but I'm unable sleep.

After a while of wallowing in self pity, Angela shyly pokes her head in my door, letting a single stream of light into the pitch black room.

"Hey, um, Drake is on the phone… he wants to know if you wanna go out with the group," she asks, saying "wanna go out with the group" in her generic male voice. I giggle at her sad excuse of an impersonation and then groan because it hurts.

"No, no, no. Mama isn't up to it. I can tell him if you want," I grumble.

"Nope, I got it!" She says perkily. I think I just passed some type of test…

I smile lightly and relax, willing my body to sleep, and finally, it obeys.

_OhshitOhshitOhshitOhshit. _I jolt awake, with that feeling in the pit of my stomach that says _You best be gettin' to some type of suitable toilet, fast. _I rush into the bathroom, barely, making it in time, to cough up the blueberry muffin I stole from The Bean. When that's all out I just keep gagging, and then the shakiness starts. It starts in my finger tips and toes, and slowly builds and snakes its way up my arms and body to meet in the in my chest. I try to fight it and stay up right, gripping the counter with all my strength. It's too much though, and the world suddenly tilts, and I find myself curled into a ball on the cold tile. Every second is agonizing.

I'm going to die.

"Bella? What's going—Bella! Are you okay?" Angela cries, kneeling down beside me, taking my head in her lap.

I laugh in spite of myself. Angela comes in and sees her loser best friend convulsing on the bathroom floor, and she asks if I'm_ okay?_ Of course I'm not okay! I think I'm saying this all out loud to her, but all I hear is this dreadful wailing, then I realize it's coming from me. I want to stop, but I can't, I've been disconnected.

"Okay, Bella. It's going to be okay… We're going to put you in the car and drive you to Harborview, 'kay?" Angela whispers, talking more to herself than to me. It never occurred to me to tell her to just call an ambulance and save us both the struggle, but even if I did, I couldn't have said it. I was too busy wailing like a siren.

Somehow, through some miraculous feat, she gets us both up off the ground and down a flight of stairs to my car. She peals out of the parking garage and onto the main roads, going way over the speed limit. I feel myself slipping into a scary, uncharted unconsciousness, one I have a feeling I wouldn't wake up from. I try to lift my head up off the car seat, to keep myself awake. Angela senses my internal struggle because I see her big, panicked eyes flash to me in the rear-view mirror.

"You have to stay awake! Do you hear me?" She asks, panic coloring her voice.

I manage a moan in reply.

"Did you take anything? Oh Jesus, you didn't do this _on purpose_, did you? Jeez, Bella, what I was saying earlier, I didn't mean for you… I just wanted…" she stutters, grip tightening on the steering wheel.

This time I mange to slur a few words.

"No... Angela… Never… purpose… Didn't… take…" I mumble through a groan, but she understands, thankfully.

"We're almost there, Bella, you're doing great, just keep talking to me, you'll be fine. What's the capital of Delaware?" she asks, attempting to use her best calm voice, and failing miserably.

"Whofuckingcares?" I slur from the back seat, and Angela manages a smile.

"Thattagirl. Now sing the alphabet," she urges, swerving in and out of cars.

"A-B-C, uh, A-B-C-E? ABCE… Fuck it," I retort, losing grasp on what's real. Spots start to dance in my vision, making dizzying circles.

"We're here! We made it, you're okay…" she reassures, but I don't hear much after that.

Strange and vivid colors seep into my vision, colors that I don't even have a name for. Something is dragging me deep into somewhere I don't want to go. I'm tired of fighting, fighting life, fighting people, fighting myself even. So I let go.

Warmth surges through me; it surrounds me and engulfs me. It's good and pure and forgiving. It's like the sun on your face on a spring day, and that feeling is all over, like I, myself, am shining, radiant with light. I bask in the feeling, nothing is wrong, nothing hurts. I am good. I am _good. _I am whole. I am here. I lie in bliss for what seems like countless, beautiful hours.

The glow that surrounds me begins to crack. First, the crack is just a minute sliver of darkness, invading my glittering reality. Then, sliver by sliver, to an unheard beat, the crack snakes and splits, and piece by piece the ethereal glow falls away, and I am thrust back into darkness. I feel like I hit the ground skidding, all the previous warmth is gone, and there is no way to return to it. There it is again, the beat, the quiver. I start walking, I don't know where; all I know is that I'm heading toward this deep and rhythmic jolt.

I get the strong and surging feeling of being lifted upwards, and I am back within myself. I don't know how I know that, but I just do. I don't know how I exactly_ left_ myself, but all I know is I'm back. I can feel my fingers again, and I wiggle them if I want to, which to me is a good sign. I feel my mind getting used to my body again, readjusted and reacquainted, like old friends. Where did I go?

My hearing comes back first, and there are beeps and hisses all around me. I'm disoriented. Little by little, I get feeling back into my body until I can finally open my eyes. I slowly open them, rearing back from the bright light above. I groan. Something shifts in the room. Something comes toward me. Pressure near my thigh. Hand on my head.

"Beeelllllaaaaa. Wake upppp, sleeping beauty," a woman's voice—Angela, maybe? — sings.

I grudgingly open my eyes fully, needing a few seconds to adjust to the light. I look around. A hospital, _of course._

"There she is! Are you having any pain? Any discomfort?" a concerned female voice asks, definitely not Angela. It's a nurse, dressed in those ridiculous cat scrubs.

I choke back a laugh. Instead, I croak, "Water."

"Alright, I'll be back in a second, dear, don't you move now," she chides, walking out of my line of sight.

_Pshht. Don't worry about that. _I think, but am unable to articulate my thought. I'm still incredibly weak; it takes a spectacular amount of energy to move my head to look for Angela.

The nurse comes back quickly, handing me a paper cup of water with a bendy straw. I love bendy straws.

"Wow, Bella. Way to completely scare the shit out of me," Angela says, settling back into the chair. I detect just a hint of anger, but it's too clouded by the relief to be taken seriously. "You died, Bella. You fucking_ died. _Do you know how that feels? To have some solemn-faced doctor telling me that you've been dead for three minutes and there's a good chance they won't be able to revive you? So help me, Bella, if they find out that you did this to yourself…" she pauses to sigh, "Ben was here, I was so lucky, I would have totally fallen apart. Actually, he just left to go home and change."

I don't have anything to say to this. I should be angry right now. She practically just accused me of attempted suicide. But if I was in her shoes, I would think the same thing. I can't blame her, especially if I've given her no reason to believe otherwise.

I look Angela squarely in the eye.

"I didn't do this on purpose, scout's honor," I say crossing my fingers over my heart.

She looks down. She doesn't believe me._ Great._

"Hello, ladies. I'm Doctor Franklin," a smooth male voice announces from the door.

"Isabella, glad to see you've finally come around. You gave us quite a scare…" he says walking closer reading some papers on a clipboard or some shit.

I could've sworn I've seen this exact doctor speech on a TV show somewhere…

"Well, Bella, I really hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you're going to have to stay here for a while. You see, flat-lining at twenty-four isn't such a good sign," he says with a light chuckle. His joke falls flat; he clears his throat and snags a chair by the end of my bed. I silently assume that it was Ben's chair.

"So over the next few days, while you're with us, we'll run a series of comprehensive tests to figure out what caused your cardiac arrest. Sound good?" the doctor bargains. "And the fact that you've only been unconscious for twenty-four hours shows a nice recovery," he says, trying to be reassuring, "but for tonight, we'll move you to a semi-private recovery room. I'll send a nurse in with your medication shortly," he finishes, standing from his chair at the foot of my bed.

Sure enough, shortly after Dr. Can-do leaves a plump blonde nurse bearing gifts.

"Now, this stuff will make you a little sleepy, dear," She cautions in that sickly-sweet voice almost all nurses use as she is injecting the liquid into my IV.

Score!

I fall asleep shortly after the orderlies come in and prep me to move. I wake up in a new room. Angela isn't there. It's cloudy, so I have no inkling of what time it is. I hear the beeping of another heart monitor, out of sync with mine. The pastel, printed curtain is drawn around their bed. I feel the lull of sleep coming back. I surrender to it, drifting off peacefully.

I'm awake. My chest aches. I have to pee, and, thankfully, I feel okay enough to get up. I tentatively put my foot on the ground shivering at the touch of cold tile. I grip my IV pole and begin the trek to the other side of the room. I'm out of breath by the time I get to the end of the bed. The bathroom door is open. I look down at my bare feet. Eww. I'm not going in there barefooted. I peek over to the other side of the curtain. A woman sleeps on her side, facing away from me.

Some slippers lie on the floor at the end of her bed. They're kind of ridiculous-looking, pink and fuzzy, with long bunny ears protruding from the top that flop onto the ground. That seems dangerous… But I don't care. She won't mind…will she?

Nahhh. She'll probably still be asleep by the time I get out. They'll be back before she even notices they're gone. I slide the slippers onto my feet, relishing in the plushy bliss. I make quick of work of maneuvering my clunky IV pole through the door, peeing and getting out again. But I just can't help but glance at the mirror. Bad move. I look like Lindsay Lohan, post eating disorder and minus the red hair. My face was gaunt and pale, with deep shadows under my eyes. You could see my hip bones sticking out from under my flattering hospital gown. I could be on one of those _Feed the Children_ commercials and I bet no one would notice that I wasn't African. On the way out, almost home free, I, of course, being myself, trip over the pole, making an unnecessarily huge noise.

The woman stirs and sits up groggily as I clamber to stand upright again. I'm sort of shocked when I look up. She's bald. Well, at least as far as I can tell. She wears translucent pink a scarf-thing, wrapped artfully around her head. She squints at the light. It takes her a minute to notice me, she glances at me, and I glance at my feet.

"Oh… uh… sorry… I, um, had to go to the bathroom and the floor was kinda… eww. Sorry. I should've asked. I understand if you don't wanna talk to me. I'll, uh buy you a new pair, just like this…. I promise. I'm just sorry. Sorry," I stammer, feeling the blood creep up my face, turning me bright crimson.

She stares at me for a minute, looks down at her slippers on my feet and smiles.

"Calm down, it's no big deal. You can use those anytime. I wouldn't dare let you buy me another pair; my nephew bought them for me," she says.

I breathe a sigh of relief. She's not mad.

"I'm …uh, Bella, by the way." I say, scratching my arm around the IV. This damn thing was gonna bug the _hell_ outta me.

She smiles kindly at me, "Hi, Bella. I'm Esme. I have a feeling we'll get along just fine."

**Listen, please, for the love of all that is holy, review. I don't care if you **_**flame **_**me, feedback is feedback and it's always incredibly inspiring. If you want just leave an emoticon… :D :) :/ :(. Okay now that I'm done begging… happy fanfictioning!**


	2. Mouth to Brain Filter

**Chapter Two**

**BPOV**

My account of the next several days involves a massive amount of curse words, and damning a few select medical professionals to terrible, violent deaths. So I'll spare you. Plus, I just _really_ don't want to get into that shit. But the good part of being in this damned hospital (and honestly, the only part I remember through my morphine-induced haze) is getting to know Esme.

Ever since our _lovely _first encounter just a few nights ago, Esme and I have grown pretty close. Day and night, we lay on our beds for hours, often only semiconscious, just talking, about anything and everything, or about absolutely nothing at all. She listened to my whiny sob stories; I listened to her heart-wrenching accounts of her abusive ex-husband. We talk about everything except our illnesses; we both tip-toe around the topic. She doesn't want to talk about cancer, and I don't want to talk about…well…whatever the hell is wrong with me.

"Bella, do you believe in God?" Esme abruptly asks one night, glancing my way while picking at her dinner.

I gape at her almost incredulously and I think a little food falls gracefully out of my mouth.

Usually in these types of situations I say something vague and non-committal, as to not offend anyone. But the hell with it. I'm lying in a hospital bed, barely able to make it to the bathroom by myself at the age of twenty-four. For once, I decide to tell the truth and not beat around the bush.

I defiantly look her straight in the eye.

"Absolutely not" I state confidently, not the slightest waver in my voice. Which is a feat that I am quite proud of.

"Oh," is all she mutters as she sighs, looking back down at her food, dragging her fork along her tray. The look on her face is one of disappointment—among other things.

Oh shit, I hurt a cancer patient. Hell: 57 Bella: 0.

I mentally kick myself; I could be so heartless sometimes. "It's not that I didn't at one time," I speedily say, attempting to recover. "It's just that I've seen way too many things happen to good people that no self-respecting God could _ever_ let happen."

She looks at me with some kind of strange hope; the look that I only see on the "On Fire For Jesus" type with they're about to try to convert me. _Oh, this ought to be good._

"Bella, I really don't mean to force my religion upon you," she begins. _The typical opener_.

_Too late_, I think, with an internal snort.

"But you can't blame God for things that happen; God gave us free will, and people make bad choices Bella, and I won't deny that sometimes I don't understand his intentions, but you can't go through life always blaming Him," She explains carefully, all the while averting her eyes from mine.

"You can't blame what you don't believe in," I retort bitterly, turning my gaze to the ceiling. _I wonder how many tiles there are…_

"Bella, people have believed in this for two thousand years, you can't really tell me that _all_ those people have been wrong," she attempts to reason. _Not happening._

"People also believed the world was flat for two thousand years," I rebuke, wincing at my own sharp words. _I need to shut the hell up. _

Esme is silent for a few moments, and then she speaks:

"Bella, I'm not sure what has happened that caused you to lose all faith—and I know this sounds trite—but it's not too late, you're young," she says and it is, in fact, extremely trite.

My rebuttal is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. I've burnt enough bridges for one life time. I don't need to add another to my ever-growing list.

Just then, the blonde nurse waltzes in again to check my IV. All my frustrations come in a wave, and crash into me all at once, and I take it out on the nearest person, which just so happens to be Perky-Pants, the nurse.

"Yeah, hey, um, excuse me? Have any of you asshats figured out what's wrong with me yet?" I snap, intentionally unleashing my inner bitch.

I feel Esme's shocked eyes on me, but I ignore her for the time being. Perky-Pants is stunned, but she quickly recovers; with a smile, of course.

"Looks like someone is a little cranky, poor dear. I bet you're not sleeping well. Well, I'm gonna go get something that will fix that right up," she chimes, her over-sweetened voice making me want to vomit. But I detect a hint of mischief in her voice. I should've remembered that this lady is in charge of medicating me. She could knock me into next week. Quite literally.

She shoots something into my IV bag and I watch it sink down to the bottom of my bag, through the tube and into my arm.

Then I watch the world go all funny, and I giggle a little, before surrendering to sleep.

I find myself in my father's sterile white room at Northridge. He sits in his rocking chair, slowly, rhythmically, methodically rocking while looking out the window into the intense greenery of the forest. I walk around to the front of his chair, into his line of sight. His eyes flicker to me for a second, but then return to the window.

"You left me, Bells," he rasps in his slow, slurred speech. It's just barely a whisper this time.

"Sorry, Dad, I'm kind of sick right now… I would've come earlier, really, I would have," I offer as a lame excuse; it'd been nearly six months since I had been out to see Dad. Guilt washes over me in thick surges.

Dad sits there, trying to make his mouth form the words he longs to speak. He is struggling, and thinking hard. He gives up. The sight makes magnifies my guilt.

"You left me, Bells," he repeats, sounding more broken this time.

"I know, Daddy, but I'm here now, see? I'm right here; I'm not going to leave," I reassure him. I debate on reaching out to touch his shoulder, but think better of it.

His face morphs into an expression I don't recognize.

"Who are you?" he screams, startled and confused. Making me to react in the exact same fashion.

"Dad? It's me! Bella!" I shout back at him, willing him to understand.

"NO! Who are you? GET OUT! GET OUT!" he screeches.

I drop to my knees in front of him, tears welling up in my eyes. My father, _my own father,_ has forgotten me. I abandoned him. Just like Renee. The tears spill over my eyes. It's a foreign feeling, tears streaming down my cheeks. I press my hands into my eyes, pulling myself together. I stand back up and take a deep breath. Charlie stares out the window once again, and shows no evidence of his outburst. He's oblivious to my presence. I am forgotten.

"Bella!" A male voice calls from the door. A familiar, thin, man with long, dark hair, pulled sloppily back in a ponytail stands there, holding his hand out.

"Drake?" I whisper.

_Why is he here?_

"Forget your old man. You chose us, remember?" Drake reminds me, a wicked grin on his face.

I reluctantly look back at Charlie. He's absorbed in the forest out his window. I trudge toward Drake and take his hand.

"That's my girl," he smirks, satisfied.

I'm suddenly furious. I am_ not _his girl.

"Get off me!" I yell, yanking my hand from his.

There's a dark corridor ahead of me, and I have no choice but to run down it. I sprint down the hall, but it's still not fast enough to outrun Drake. He roughly grabs my shoulders and pins me against the wall.

"What are you doing Bella? You chose this remember?" he whispers in my ear.

I'm feeling nauseous.

"Get away from me, Drake. I don't want you," I demand through clenched teeth, turning my head away from him, but he grabs my chin with one hand and makes me face him.

"Shhh, don't worry, Bella. Just chill. I got something right here that can take all the pain away…" he says, pulling something from behind him.

It's a pillow.

He holds it even with my face, and I see his vicious smirk before he shoves it over my face. My arms are bound to my side by his weight, and I can't fight back. I try to move my head to gasp for breath but I can't; so I scream. I scream a deafening, blood curdling scream.

Without warning, I'm sitting up, gasping for breath in my hospital room, back in my bed. Behind me, my heart monitor is going crazy. I let my breathing slow. It's the middle of the night, or maybe early morning. I haven't had a nightmare like that in a while. The nausea from the dream has carried over. I stagger to the bathroom, not bothering with the bunny slippers this time. I throw up, and then I dry heave for a while. I rinse my mouth out. I don't bother looking into the mirror this time. No point in depressing myself.

I stumble back into bed, totally drained. I succumb to sleep, praying to every god I can think of that my nightmares won't return.

I must have prayed well.

I wake up facing something that maybe used to be able to call itself a curtain, until it got attacked by a fucking be-dazzler. Excited female voices chatter from the other side.

"Don't you like your new curtain Esme? We asked the nurses if we could change it from that awful neutral print..." exclaims a soprano female voice.

"Oh yes, Alice," Esme speculates, as if talking to a small child about a drawing, "it's lovely."

"It's just _part_ of your birthday present, we decided to give it to you early, and you can use it on your shower when you go home," a deeper, smooth voice adds.

I can't help but notice the emphasis the second woman put on _when you go home. _It was a small way to reassure Esme, and probably herself, that Esme would get over this.

"Rosalie! When are you going to make me a great aunt?" Esme inquires, changing the subject, and I can hear the smile in her voice.

"Oh I don't know. We've got time. But I'll tell you, it's not for mine and Emmett's lack of _trying. _If you know what I mean," Rosalie—I assume—gossips.

All three women giggle conspiratorially. I feel a small smile tug at the corner of my lips.

"Shhh! You have a roommate, right?" Rosalie says, shushing the other ladies.

"Oh, um yeah, but after the stuff the nurse gave her last night, I doubt she'd feel an earthquake," Esme reckons, I can hear the giggle she tries to cover.

"Oh. Well isn't that, you know, _weird_? I mean, sharing a room and all?" The higher pitched one—Alice—asks.

"No, not really, she really is a sweet girl, if not a little misguided," Esme answers, her voice getting just slightly darker at the end of her sentence.

Misguided? _Misguided? _I snort loudly. The women hear it.

"Yep, that's Bella alright. Alice, dear, will you open that curtain?" Esme directs, the naturally sweet tone back again.

A few seconds later, I see a tiny hand on the curtain as Alice pulls it back. Alice and Rosalie fit their voices; Alice is cute and petite, and Rosalie is dazzling and curvy. They look at me appraisingly.

"Hi, um, Bella, is it? I'm Alice," Alice greets, putting her tiny hand out towards me.

"Yeah, Bella, pleased to meet you," I respond, taking her hand and giving it a mini-shake.

I just want to put Alice in my purse; she's so cute and tiny. Alice, Rosalie and Esme all give me a puzzled look. Then I realize I said that out loud.

"It's the damn medication," I explain hurriedly, "It kind of eliminates my brain-to-mouth filter."

Alice is the first one to break the awkwardness.

She crinkles her nose and says "I wouldn't want to live in _that _off-brand thing," she pouts, pointing to my well-worn purse on the floor by my bed.

I laugh. Hard. I like Alice already.

"I like you too, Bella," Alice smiles, making me realize I said my thoughts out loud again. Goddammit.

After that I try not to think anymore, as to not let anything obscene, or possibly mentally scarring, out of my mouth. The women continue chatting, so I decided to give them the illusion of privacy by turning on the TV and staring at it.

Oh my God. Maury is on. _Sweet._

Today, the freak show includes some chick name Trixie, and her boyfriend Jim-Bob is sure that their baby, Junior (yes they named their kid _Junior_), is not his, but their neighbor at the trailer park, Dwayne's baby. Maury with his smug, shit-eating grin resting on his face is sitting in his chair, holding the results in his hand, amusedly watching Dwayne and Jim-Bob go at it. Meanwhile, a picture of Junior is projected on the screen behind them. He's an ugly little fucker, barely two years old and already has buck teeth.

Maury finally decides it's time to stop Dwayne and Jim-Bob from losing any _more_ teeth, and decides to read the results.

"Jim-Bob… in the case of twenty-month old Junior, you ARE the father," Maury announces.

Oh hell. The whole studio erupts into ear-splitting, lewd calls, and the trio runs to the back. Cut to commercial.

"Holy shit, was that Maury?" Rosalie asks, whipping her head in the direction of my TV.

"Uh, yeah. I can turn it if you want…" I offer, picking up the remote.

"No! I _love _this show_,_" she interjects, moving to the chair by my bed for a better view. Maury comes back on and we fall silent.

This time it is La'Tanya, and her boyfriend TreQuan arguing over baby Jamal. La'Tanya was "512% sure" that was TreQuan is "da baby daddy". Maury doesn't hold out as long this time.

"TreQuan, in this case of six-month old Jamal… you are NOT the father," Maury announces.

Again the audience busts into unintelligible, but no doubt offensive shouts. TreQuan does some sort of ghetto-stomp/dance on the stage, as La'Tanya sobs uncontrollably in the back ground.

Oh, the stereotypes.

"Hey Bella?" Rosalie asks, head cocked to the side.

"Yeah?" I absentmindedly respond.

"Do you mind _not_ narrating the whole show?" she asks politely.

"Oh, uh sure." I answer, embarrassed. I hear Alice giggle a little from her spot at Esme's side.

Damn it. I hate medication. Maury comes back on, and it's basically the same story for the next half hour.

After the show she stretches gracefully and mumbles something about spending quality time with the bottom of society.

"Edward, Jasper and Emmett will be by later with the rest of your present," Alice says to Esme. I momentarily wonder who they all were…

"You guys really didn't have to-" Esme starts. But she is almost instantly cut off.

"Oh shut up and enjoy it," interrupts Rosalie.

I'm kind of jealous of their family dynamic; it's comfortable and bantering. Something I used to have with Charlie. Images from the dream flash through my head. I shiver. It goes unnoticed. Thankfully.

"Well, we're going to go nab some lunch then meet up with the boys to make sure they haven't trashed anything," Rosalie says, grabbing her coat and purse and heading toward the door. Alice follows, they say their goodbyes and then they're gone.

"Listen, Esme, I'm sorry about last night…" I apologize after a few moments, wanting to make things right again with her.

"Why are you apologizing? I asked you for your views, and I got what I asked for," she explains and it sounds genuine.

"I just didn't mean to hurt your feelings," I protest.

"You didn't, I promise you." She replies, and I have a feeling she's telling the truth. I sigh contentedly.

We lay there, watching crappy local cable, and our companionable atmosphere is back.

"Sorry about my family waking you up," Esme apologizes.

"It's no problem, I really like them. They really care about you," I reassure, smiling her way.

"They are sweet, aren't they?" Esme agrees, returning the smile.

Doctor Can-do decides to show is sorry ass just then. He casually knocks on the open door, as if he _hasn't _been poking me with every needle in the hospital for the past week.

"Ms. Swan, do you mind coming to my office for a moment?" he inquires, as if I have a choice.

"Yeah, that would be nice, if I could freaking walk," I retort. I do not have to be nice to these people.

"Of course, that why I brought her," he answers, motioning to something behind him.

Nurse Perky-Pants comes in wheeling a wheelchair.

"Now," she begins overly-sweetly, obviously still bitter about last night "do you want to climb in, or would you like me to _put_ you in here," she threatens, the smile on her face slowly turning evil.

I quietly climb in the chair, no trouble from me. She wheels me roughly out of the room and I slightly wave to Esme. We pass a multitude of identical hallways before arriving at a glass door with DOCTOR FRANKLIN in big, black letters printed on it.

She yanks the door open and pushes me through and wheels me around to face the desk. She glares at me and leaves. Damn, who buttered _her _toast? Oh right. Me.

Dr. Can-do sinks down into his cushy chair, looks at me and frowns.

"First of all, Ms. Swan, I'd like to address a complaint. We here at Harborview would appreciate it if you don't approach our staff as, ahem, _asshats,_" he scolds.

I laugh at his awkward use of the curse word. He grimaces.

"We strive to keep a respectful environment between patient and care-giver. And we ask that you keep up your end of the deal, and treat the staff with respect," he continues sternly, quickly recovering from his little bout of awkwardness.

I try not to smile as I say, "No problem, won't happen again."

"Good, now I have more to tell you," he informs me, which instantly gets me on the edge of my seat…er, wheelchair.

Then he puts on the generic "bad news" face again. I hate that face. Nothing good _ever_ follows that face.

"You're results came back today. I've got to tell you Bella, it's not good news."

_Well, shit._


	3. Lice and Birthday Cake

**A/N Whaddup 16 readers? It's chapter 3! Enjoy!**

**Chapter 3**

**Bella POV**

**Recap: **_Dr. Can-do sinks down into his cushy chair, looks at me and frowns. _

"_First of all, Ms. Swan, I'd like to address a complaint. We here at Harborview would appreciate it if you don't approach our staff as, ahem, asshats," he scolds._

_I laugh at his awkward use of the curse word. He grimaces. _

"_We strive to keep a respectful environment between patient and care-giver. And we ask that you keep up your end of the deal, and treat the staff with respect," he continues sternly, quickly recovering from his little bout of awkwardness._

_I try not to smile as I say, "No problem, won't happen again."_

"_Good, now I have more to tell you," he informs me, which instantly gets me on the edge of my seat…er, wheelchair._

_Then he puts on the generic "bad news" face again. I hate that face. Nothing good ever follows that face._

"_You're results came back today. I've got to tell you Bella, it's not good news."_

_Well, shit._

"Just go ahead and lay it on me," I sigh, steeling myself for the diagnosis. What could I have? Probably nothing and he's just being a douche-face and dragging it out for forever.

"Well, our records show that you had a congenital heart defect in the form of coarctation of the aorta* a while back. A surgery was performed to fix the issue when you were a baby," he "informs" me.

I nod at him exaggeratedly, wanting him to tell me something I _don't_ know.

"Surgeries, such as yours leave quite a bit of scar tissue. Scar tissue is rough and can be like Velcro for infections. Are you following me so far, Ms. Swan?" he condescendingly asks.

I nod again, throwing in an eye roll for good measure.

"Okay, so what appears to have happened in your case is a perfect storm," he continues.

_Story of my life._

"A mash-up between the history of heart problems along with any one of the aggravators of this condition has caused you to contract Endocarditis," he explains, putting solemn weight on the last word.

I stare at him blankly. Saying large doctor-words around me was not efficient to our communication.

"Endocar- what?" I ask, utterly confused, as well as slightly pissed. Does he seriously expect me to know off the top of my head what the hell that means?

"Endocarditis is an inflammation of your heart valves; it's more common among people with congenital heart disease, like yourself. We don't know all the details at this moment, but like I said, your recent heart failure leads us to believe the disease has progressed quite far," he dictated.

"Why now, I mean, what caused me to get it now instead of say, ten years ago?" I ask, honestly curious.

And panicky.

"Endocarditis can be caused by a number of factors. More common ones include dental surgery, and illegal injected drug use," he answers, giving me a pointed look, which I ignore. My mind's fucking reeling too much to acknowledge him.

Oh fuck. That was one time. _One fucking time. _Drake convinced me that the high would be better if I shot it up.

"Oh, it must've been… that dental surgery I just had… the other day," I lie badly. I resist the urge to roll my eyes at myself. _I can do better than this._

He looks at me disbelievingly but doesn't say anything. He shuffles through some papers before placing them in a neat pile on his desk. He clasps his hands together and speaks again.

"So we'll put you on antibiotics and see where we go from there. You'll have to stay in the hospital for observation, of course," he gives me an encouraging smile, one which I know is totally false. _He _loathes _me._

"Well, _Doctor Franklin,_" I say, avoiding the use of his mental nickname, "I work at a _coffee shop_, and do you know what that means? That means shitty benefits, like health insurance. I'm sure my lousy insurance doesn't cover 'seeing where we go from there'."

"Ms. Swan, I assure you that this will all be taken care of, we have on-staff insurance aids that have already taken care of this. Now all you have to worry about is getting better," he assures me, again, with the phony smile. _Ugh._

The phone rings, and he answers it. He starts talking in this gushy voice; I assume it's his wife on the other end, _gross._ So I just sit there awkwardly while he sweet-talking some chick. After a minute he notices me again and holds his hand over the receiver.

"Did you need something, Ms. Swan?" he asks, annoyance slipping into his voice.

I huff. I guess getting out of here will be up to me. I clumsily wheel to the door. I can't reach the handle, and Dr. Douche-Face is whispering sweet nothings into the telephone. So I have an idea; I gather up as much momentum as possible and slam into his glass door which—thankfully—doesn't break, but, instead, opens. I make it as far as three or four hallways, but then I'm lost and out of breath.

I see an intern so I politely flag him down.

"You! Hey! Bad haircut!" I call, effectively getting his attention.

He walks toward me quickly, looking suspicious and offended.

"Could you _kindly_ wheel me back to my room?" I ask sweetly, maybe even throwing in a batting of the eyelashes.

"Um, sure, what's your room number?" he asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

"B118," I reply, losing the sweetness.

He's silent while he takes me back to my room. _I really need better people skills._

When I'm back in bed and awkward-intern is gone, I begin to doze off.

I am silently thanking whatever higher power there might be for granting me sleep when Esme speaks up. "Bella, dear, you may not want to try to sleep. My family will be here for a little mini-party and they can get, well, kind of _audacious_," she apologizes.

"Yeah, that's cool. I want to meet them anyways. Besides, I'm due some normal human interaction." I concede, waving her off with my hand.

She chuckles. "Speak of the devil!" she exclaims, cocking her ear to one side.

I don't hear anything at first, but then I hear it. It's booming laughter, echoing off the sterile white walls.

"Oh, God. What is _that?_" I ask, thoroughly mystified.

"_That, _would be Emmett," she replies with a fond smile spreading across her face.

A large man appears at the door, with a massive grin on his face.

"Edward, shut up, you're unloved," the extremely large dude says to someone behind him, while entering the room. Emmett is carrying a wrapped package and some balloons. It's a medley of HAPPY BIRTHDAY and GET WELL. Yes, Esme, get well, the balloons demand you to. Rosalie clings to his free arm.

Another guy comes in with Alice, and I remember the ladies talking about him earlier. I try to recall his name. John? No, it was unusual. Jasper! Yeah, that's it.

Last, but MOST DEFINITLEY not least, comes in the most gorgeous male specimen I have ever seen; if my lady-parts could sing, they'd be serenading him right now. Oh sweet Jesus. Just look at him, his face all angular and structured. His eyes are all intelligent and mysterious. Don't even get me started on his _hair_. Gah. I wish I was a louse, and I would live all up in that head, and snuggle up to the feathery strands. Then I'd have lice-babies and we'd all grow up in sex-hair-paradise.

I think they mentioned his name earlier, but there's no use trying to remember with _him _standing in here. Hell, I can't even make a coherent thought that doesn't involve aggressively stroking his hair. As soon as I tear my eyes off his delicious face, I notice he's carrying a small gift bag and a cake.

They all give the classic family greeting, you know, kissing and hugging and junk. I turn away, giving them momentary privacy, but I quickly look back, just to gape openly at _him._

"Esme! We got you cancer-cake!" Emmett proclaims, obviously excited.

Rosalie smacks him upside the head. A frown in is in place on her face.

"Insensitive jerk," she mutters, "what he _means _is we got it from a special bakery that only uses ingredients that your stomach can handle since the chemo and all…"

Edward has been silent this entire time, apart from a subtle greeting to Esme. He watches his family's antics, seemingly amused. Being my pitiful self, I can't help but watch him. I love the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. I'm such a creep.

They cut the cake and pass it out amongst the family, and then take notice of me.

"Bella, you want a piece?" Alice asks, offering a paper plate in my general direction.

"Sure," is all I can say, since Gorgeous-Eye-Crinkler is looking at me.

She cuts me a generous piece and walks it over to me. I hesitantly stab it with my fork, and taste it. I keep it in my mouth for a second, and then promptly, and oh-so-politely, spit it back onto my plate.

"Oh for the love of God, what do they make that shit out of? Fetuses?" I blurt, glaring at the regurgitated cake.

The Cullen family is silent, and all staring at me, including Gorgeous-Eye-Crinkler. The silence hangs in the air for a second, and then Emmett's booming laughter rings through the room. His cake is untouched on his plate.

"You are one jacked-up chick" he decides, but then quickly adds, "No offence, I just mean, that was strange and all."

I laugh; glad someone thinks my medicated-fueled outbursts are funny.

"No, it's okay. I came to terms with that fact a while ago," I reassure him.

Emmett nods and the conversation kind of dies after that.

Suddenly Alice claps and sings, "Presents!"

The crinkling of wrapping paper can be heard as Emmett and Jasper approach Esme's bed. Emmett is holding a shiny, silver package with a bright purple bow behind his back. He presents it proudly, and for the first time that night, Jasper speaks.

"You're always talking about how much you miss your class, so we came up with a little something that can enable you to always be with them," Jasper drawls with a deep southern accent. I momentarily wonder what the hell an accent like that is doing up in Seattle.

Esme slowly and gently unwraps the paper, and reveals a beautiful decorated book.

"It's a scrapbook, your class made it, and they were really great about it. They really miss you," Emmett informs her with a small, sad smile. It looks out of place on Emmett; he doesn't seem like one to be anything but happy and all laughs.

She takes a minute to look at the scrapbook, tearing up in certain spots, so she shuts it and hands it to me.

"This was the class I was talking about," she reminds me. I vaguely recall her telling me she was a teacher.

The front cover reads "Ms. Platt's Kindergarten class, Room 109" with a picture of a healthy Esme, standing with a large group of beaming children.

I flip through the pages, there's a whole section of letters from every student in the class. My favorite is from some kid named Steven (who also just so happened to be the only kid to use illustrations in his letter) with clumsy, oversized hand-writing. It reads:

_Dear Ms. Platt, _

_Pleez come bakk. The new teecher doesn't give us choklet. She is meen very much. Tommy Rollin puncheded me in the arm and so I stuck a crayawn up his nose. We got in trubble. You are a nice teecher that I like. Sarah Liggins say you have Kanser. What is Kanser? Oh and you stell need to finish that book about the bear. You are nice._

_ Love,_

_Steven Reems_

This particular letter included a scary picture of their substitute teacher, Ms. Crow. The kid had an active imagination. None of my teachers ever had tentacles. But apparently Ms. Crow has ten of them. Awesome.

"Edward has something for you too," Rosalie divulged, bringing everyone's attention to the small bag in Gorgeous-Eye-Crinkler's hand. He looks uncomfortable with all the regard, but moves beside Esme anyhow.

"Although not as _creative _as a scrapbook, I hope this will mean as much as I wanted it to," Edward says softly, handing her the small gift bag before stepping back.

Esme accepts it graciously and smoothly pulls a long, thin, jewelry box from the bag. Discarding the bag, she carefully, if not cautiously opens the box. I lean back to try to find a better angle to see what's inside. I feel incredibly nosy at this point, but I don't care.

Again, she looks at it for a while, picking at it and tears well up in her eyes and she passes it to me. I mimic her caution in opening it, opening it slowly as if it's some artifact I'm not supposed to see. After all, Gorgeous-Eye-Crinkler has touched this box. I resist the urge to smell it. I'm finally able to see the contents of the box. It's a charm bracelet, already fully loaded-down with charms. Most deal with being a teacher, but some newer-looking ones include the pink breast cancer awareness ribbon and a heart-shaped charm with 'WARRIOR' engraved on it.

This is when I finally grasp that Esme has breast cancer. We always dance around the topic of illnesses, since we both deal with it so often it's nice to escape that and talk about other subjects. But that was before I knew what was wrong with me. I just knew that I died. And that's not good. But now that I know, it's like this heavy weight in my chest, a dreadful reminder that I'm not normal. I push it to the back of my mind, but it always sits there and itches, willing me to think about it.

I hand the bracelet and its case back and after that, the celebration quickly winds down. Esme thanks everyone profusely. The couples leave quickly, leaning into each other, hands intertwined, I sigh. Their relationships sure beat the hell out of one night stands followed by acts of thievery.

Now, only Edward remains, and Esme is dozing calmly. I watch him for a second; his legs are propped up against the side of the bed, as he sits under the reading lamp. His brow is furrowed in concentration as his eyes quickly scan the words. I get the feeling that he's spent many nights in this exact position. He hasn't spoken much tonight, but I get the vibe that his and Esme's relationship runs deep.

I look at the title his book. _Dracula_. Hmm. Vampire fetish? I could dig that. But he's reading like a pro. Maybe he's a librarian. Cue librarian sexual fantasies. Ew, books. But then I think back to me previous self, pre-drugs, pre-tragedy, and I recall how much I adored reading. I kind of lost all that after the Great Charlie Ordeal, because drugs do nothing for your attention span.

"Dracula, huh?" I shyly ask.

See what he does to me? I'm not shy. He peeks up at me from behind his book. I guess he decides that I'm worth talking to, because he lowers his book.

"Yeah, ever read it?" he asks, making small talk.

I snort.

"Uh, no. I never hopped on the vampire bandwagon," I quip.

He smiles indulgently, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Haughty dick. After being shut down there, I move on to better common ground, more specifically, Esme.

"Esme is amazing, you know," I muse.

"I know," he replies, "She reminds me every day."

We're silent for a while, but then he speaks.

"If you don't mind me asking, why are you here?" he inquires, politely as humanly possible.

This is what I've been dreading. Someone asking what's wrong. It's a completely normal, obvious question, but I've been apprehensive about it, nonetheless. I don't want pity, because as soon as I say "heart condition" people's eyes grow all soft and sorry. Then I mention "coarctation of the aorta" and people's eyes cross. It's a big word, but it means little to others. Inside I'm panicking, trying to come up with something, _anything,_ to tell this beautiful man that wouldn't make him look at me like some dying puppy.

So I lie.

"Oh, I'm just… recovering from a bad bout of pneumonia," I fib.

His face darkens, and a mix of shock, hurt and confusion crosses his face.

I have a feeling I just made another one of those world-famous Bella Bad Choices.

*******Coarctation of the Aorta****- where the** **heart valve, called the aorta is narrowed, restricting blood flow through the heart and hence, the entire body. **

**A/N Please for the love of lice and sex hair, review. I need it. **


End file.
